By Karen Cimms

kcimms@tnonline.com

I’m terrified of Mr. Peanut.

I don’t like anything or anyone whose face is covered with a mask of some sort. And if their voice is distorted, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.

That sounds funny, and it is, but I’m totally serious.

Years ago when I was a human resources administrator, I was in my office and a boyfriend, who worked at the same company, walked in dressed as Darth Vader, complete with that deep, creepy breathing.

I was out of my chair in seconds, and as he slowly stalked toward me, I cowered against the wall and threatened him with serious bodily harm. He tugged off the mask and accused me of not being able to take a joke.

I can take a joke with the best of them, but I was truly petrified.

Needless to say, that relationship didn’t last long.

I once was chased through a parking lot of a grocery store by a giant Dorito that was trying to give me a coupon for a free bag of my favorite chips.

Nope. Not happening. I didn’t threaten him, but I did beg him to please leave me alone. Since he wanted to give me free stuff, the concept was lost on him. A couple years ago my daughter, her boyfriend, my daughter-in-law and I dressed as Jem and the Holograms for Halloween. I was even carrying one of my husband’s guitars as we went trick-or-treating with my grandkids.

We stopped at a house where the owners had gone all out and had turned their garage into a haunted lab with creepy characters, including a man who stood as still as a statue wearing a rubber face mask. My granddaughter was afraid to go inside, and while I wasn’t thrilled, I wanted to show her it was safe, so I went in, and while I waited for her, I could see the ghoul creeping up beside me.

“Don’t touch me,” I snarled under my breath.

He laughed, probably because I hadn’t threatened his life, and told me he just wanted to see my guitar as he was also a guitarist.

Clearly, this is odd behavior for a grown woman, and until about 20 years ago, I had no idea why I react like this.

I figured it out while doing a writing exercise, and once I did, it was so obvious, I don’t know why it took me so long.

When I was around 6 years old my aunt and uncle took me to Atlantic City for the weekend. My aunt insisted she’d made reservations, but when we arrived at the hotel, it wasn’t open for the season yet. We drove around until my uncle pulled up in front of an old Victorian house with a vacancy sign.

The owner was an older man, thin, with white hair and tanned skin that hung on him like it was a size too big. He wore a white undershirt, and had faded tattoos inked on his forearms.

My memory is pretty clear, and what I remember most was that he had a round, black hole at the base of his throat, and he was smoking. I don’t understand the mechanics of it, but he’d bring his cigarette to his lips, draw in, and then smoke would curl out of that little hole. When he spoke, he held a small instrument to his throat, and his voice had an unnatural sound.

I couldn’t stop staring. Yes, it was rude, but I was 6. When he caught me looking at him, he narrowed his eyes and gave me an evil look.

I was traumatized. I had no idea what a laryngectomy was.

The next morning, we went to the famous Boardwalk, and my aunt was excited to take me to the Planters Peanut store so she could take my picture with Mr. Peanut.

I can still remember the smell of fresh roasted peanuts and the layout of that store. Mr. Peanut stood in one of the aisles, wearing his spats, a top hat and his signature monocle. He was also a giant, especially to a 6-year-old. Still, I inched a little closer. He turned his peanut shell body toward me, bent slightly so that his peanut head was closer and then he spoke. His voice came from behind a thin black screen, and it sounded as if he’d swallowed an actual person.

I started to run. I ran out of the store, through the crowds and down the Boardwalk as fast as my little legs could carry me. I don’t know where I was going, maybe all the way back home. If I hadn’t run smack into a glass wall, I might still be running. By the time my aunt and uncle caught up to me, my aunt was furious.

If something like this happened today, a parent or adult might try to figure out what had frightened me to react the way I did. Back then, it was just considered bad behavior. I’m pretty sure my aunt also thought me ungrateful. They cut the weekend short and went home right after they caught me.

I remember feeling how disappointed my mother was in me for what I’d done.

Now that I understand why I did what I did, it makes sense, but I still have to warn you, come at me in a Darth Vader costume, and all bets are off.